Touch
by AlidaHush
Summary: Post Help. The basement is filled with demons. But today, he is not one of them.


"Worth"

By: WickedFrex

She watched him from a few paces away, rocking back and forth, head buried in his knees. After a while, he calmed slightly, head jerking and twitching. She usually didn't watch him this long. Sometimes she would walk right up to him and demand things. Sometimes she would see him and then think better of it, turning around and walking away.

He was a mess. His hair hung in black and white curls. It was obvious he hadn't even thought about what he looked or smelled like. It wasn't important. Nothing was important anymore. Nothing except the voices he was hearing.

"Spike?" she asked, hands limp at her sides as she strode softly over to him. He jerked his head up, looking squarely at her face. It startled her for a minute, but she quickly recovered. "Spike, we need to get you out of here."

Still starring. Okay, did something not get through?

She knelt down, watching as his eyes quiver in the sockets, shifting madly around her face. They were searching for something. Forgiveness?

"Told me you'd come. Never knew when. Always when you least expect it." He muttered, chuckling and putting his arm over his head. He shook the locks of hair suddenly, "No! Not her. Be anyone but her."

Buffy set her chin, fearing that tears might come suddenly. He deserved this, of course, but for some reason her emotions didn't believe her. For some stupid reason, the tears wanted to come.

Suddenly, as if some unheard word had been spoken, he seized and thrashed against the wall. Buffy backed slightly away, not sure what he was doing. His eyes grew wide and mad and he slammed his head against the wall.

"Why? Why are you doin' this ta me? Been bad, 'course…but not her. Anyone but her." he pleaded to himself, or at least to someone she couldn't see. Buffy sighed and looked him up and down again, constantly aware that he was in the habit of harming himself. She saw only a few new scratches, nothing major or in need of repair.

"Spike, listen to me." Buffy said, inching closer on her heels. Spike slowly brought his eyes toward her, his head weaving as if he were drunk. "This place is killing you. You need to leave."

"They don't want me to."

"Who?"

"The ones who made me do it." He replied, tears leaping into his eyes. Buffy closed her own eyes and sighed. She suddenly felt the urge to touch him. To make contact and anchor him to reality. Most days she wouldn't have cared. But, today it seemed nessiscary. Today she was just tired of seeing him flounder. She wanted Spike back. Maybe if she touched him…

"Made you do what?" Buffy asked calmly, reaching out to take his hand. But, her question was soon answered when a silver blade flashed across her vision. Suddenly, she reeled back, watching the blade glint in the soft glow of what was left of the light, blood trickling down the side.

"Told me I wasn't aloud to touch you anymore…" Spike whimpered, letting the blade drop with a clatter. Buffy resumed her effort to touch him and lifted his hands between hers. As her fingers brushed against his wrists, he suddenly arched back in pain, whimpering and seething.

"Spike? Spike what's wrong?" she asked without taking her gaze off his agonizing throes. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

"Not supposed to touch…they told me so." He whispered.

Buffy looked down at her hands instinctively.

He was talking about touch.

What she saw made her stomach turn. Blood oozed between her fingers, leaking in drips on the floor. She saw the deep gash in his left wrist, bound together with a piece of cloth, soaked in blood. Everything inside her screamed and made her want to run. But she only let the wrist fall from her grip, watching as it landed back in its own pool of blood.

"What did you do?" she asked accusingly.

Spike rolled his eyes to face her. With an amused smile he shook his head.

"Hurt the girl."

Should have expected that…

"No. You hurt yourself. Why did you do this?" Buffy asked, the question burning in her mouth like ash. He tried to cut off his hand. Why? Because of her? No. No, it's not her fault. She closed her eyes for a minute, trying to think of the best way to help him. When she finally willed herself to look, she saw him sobbing, writhing in the corner, his bloodied hand limp at his side.

Buffy picked his wrist up again, feeling him tense under her touch.

"It's O.K." she said softly, unsure of how her voice sounded. Probably like stone. Like every other time she ever spoke to him. Oh, God, he tried to hurt himself. Over her? For her? What did it matter? He had done something… She removed the bandage, examining the cut. It was deep, nearly cut past the bone.

"Not supposed ta touch."

"It's O.K."

"Why are you touching me?" he asked between tears. Buffy wasn't sure if it was the pain that made him weak, or the voices. It was probably both.

"Because you're hurt." She replied truthfully. Spike shot her a look of disbelief.

"Not worth it. Not worth any touching. They told me so." He flinched, trying to jerk his arm away. Buffy calmly held onto his upper arm, working on his wrist. He whimpered.

His eyes quickly met hers and for one instant, she thought she saw a glimmer of the old Spike. But, it flashed away and returned to crazy-bad-hair-of-redemption-Spike. He lloked back at the wall.

"Not worth it, They told me so." He repeated, softer this time. Buffy sighed, touching his cheek with her free hand.

"Spike," she saw his eyes meet hers with a pleading look. "They lied."

Fin


End file.
